Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver :: :: University of Virginia Library

[“The following beautiful Stanzas are by a correspondent, who subscribes himself ‘A Serf,’ and declares that he has to weave fourteen hours out of the four-and-twenty. We trust his daily toil will soon be abridged, that he may have more leisure to devote to an art in which he shows so much natural genius and cultivated taste.”— Aberdeen Herald, Feb. 1841.]

“I'll tell some ither time, quo'he,
How we love an' laugh in the north countrie.”
Legend.

Men grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind,
Love kentna whaur to stay.
Wi' fient an arrow, bow, or string,—
Wi' droopin' heart an' drizzled wing,
He faught his lanely way.

“Is there nae mair, in Garioch fair,
Ae spotless hame for me?
Hae politics, an' corn, an' kye,
Ilk bosom stappit? Fie, O fie!
I'll swithe me o'er the sea.”

He launched a leaf o' jessamine,
On whilk he daured to swim,
An' pillowed his head on a wee rosebud,
Syne laithfu', lanely, Love 'gan scud
Down Ury's waefu' stream.

The birds sang bonnie as Love drew near,
But dowie when he gaed by;
Till lull'd wi' the sough o' monie a sang,
He sleepit fu' soun' and sailed alang
'Neath Heav'n's gowden sky!

'Twas just whaur creeping Ury greets
Its mountain cousin Don,
There wandered forth a weelfaur'd deme,
Wha listless gazed on the bonnie stream,
As it flirted an' played with a sunny beam
That flickered its bosom upon.

Love happit his head, I trow, that time,
The jessamine bark drew nigh,
The lassie espied the wee rosebud,
An' aye her heart gae thud for thud,
An' quiet it wadna lie.

“O gin I but had yon wearie wee flower
That floats on the Ury sae fair!”
She lootit her hand for the silly rose-leaf,
But little wist she o' the pawkie thief,
That was lurkin' an' laughin' there!

Love glower'd when he saw her bonnie dark e'e,
An' swore by Heaven's grace
He ne'er had seen, nor thought to see,
Since e'er he left the Paphian lea,
Sae lovely a dwallin' place!

Syne, first of a', in her blythesome breast
He built a bower, I ween;
An' what did the waefu' devilick neist?
But kindled a gleam like the rosy east,
That sparkled frae baith her een.

An' then beneath ilk high e'e bree
He placed a quiver there;
His bow? What but her shinin' brow?
An' O sic deadly strings he drew
Frae out her silken hair.

Guid be our guard! sic deeds waur deen,
Roun' a' our countrie then;
An' monie a hangin' lug was seen
'Mang farmers fat, an' lawyers lean,
An' herds o' common men!

The Ury, a small stream, at the junction of which with the Don stands Inver Ury.

“Paphos, a very ancient city of Cyprus. It was celebrated for its beautiful temple of Venus, built on the spot where she landed when she rose from the sea. There were one hundred altars in her temple, which smoked daily, with a profusion of frankincense, and though exposed to the open air, they were never wetted by rain. Annual festivals were held here in honour of the goddess, and her oracle, which was connected with the temple, acquired for it considerable reputation.” [So here it was that this same little urchin Cupid, imbibed a taste for bow-bending; and getting thereat so expert, and withal so troublesome, it was resolved by certain infirm gods and ugly goddesses to do for him. One night then, when Venus his mother was invisible (Adonis had been skulking in a wood close by) the aforementioned divinities laid hands on master Mischief—“skelpit”him rarely—ordered father Time to clip the little rascal's wings, and lay him down somewhere about the Gairoch. Here he wandered so long and wept so sorely, that his “blear'd een” obtained for him the name of the “Blind Boy.”]